


I Have Loved the Stars

by AelinSardothian



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Dick's coping mechanisms suck, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Jason died, M/M, wound care
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-17 22:53:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29233329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AelinSardothian/pseuds/AelinSardothian
Summary: Dick Grayson had the unfortunate luck to find out his little brother was dead via the Internet.  Slade Wilson had the unfortunate luck to find out Dick Grayson was letting the shit get beat out of him as a result.  Dick treats himself like shit and Slade takes pity on the poor kid.  Jason died at the hands of Joker and Dick is super pissed that Bruce didn't tell him, and then proceeds to engage in extremely unhealthy and life-endangering coping mechanisms.  That is until Slade intervenes.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson
Comments: 9
Kudos: 91





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [I want to lay here (lost and bitter)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20806184) by [withthekeyisking](https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthekeyisking/pseuds/withthekeyisking). 



> Some hurt/comfort because I was in my feelings a lot and got inspired by a fic by @withthekeyisking, whose Sladick fic collection I binged. And at least one other chapter will follow. Idk if the rating will stay the way it is now but I'm definitely going to try and make this a longer fic, so we'll see. Jason died at the hands of Joker and Dick is super pissed that Bruce didn't tell him, and then proceeds to engage in extremely unhealthy and life-endangering coping mechanisms. That is until Slade intervenes. Thanks for reading!

Rage was a red, burning wave through him. Throwing him from his bike that he rode careening up to the sidewalk. Blinding him as he burst into his apartment. The ringing in Dick’s ears did nothing to muffle the crash of furniture as he kicked them over, the clatter of books as he ripped down shelves, the shatter of glass as he emptied his cabinets.

Jason couldn’t be dead.

Jason, his little brother. With whom he’d just started forming a relationship, whom he’d just started loving. And now that fragile beginning, built on such hate and anger and grief was ripped out from underneath him leaving him with nowhere to stand. Dick screamed as he threw a lamp across his living room. And _Bruce—_

Bruce hadn’t even _told_ him. Three months Jason had been dead, buried, and body cold in the ground and Dick had still had to look up Jason’s file in the database himself once he’d returned to Earth. Had to see the word “Deceased” written on his little brother’s file with his own eyes. Bruce hadn’t told him. Fifteen-year-old Jason had been brutally beaten by the Joker. But that hadn’t been enough, no, he’d been _blown up_. Dick didn’t know what was stopping him from breaking into Arkham tonight. Nothing really.

Dick’s boots crunched over the shrapnel now littering his apartment as he paced back and forth. Jason was dead, and Dick hadn’t been able to stop it. Gritting his teeth, his chest tight and painful, he swept his arms across his tabletop, scattering papers and mugs and pens. He hissed, low and between his teeth as a shard of glass sliced through his forearm. Yanking the piece from the sleeve of his riding jacket, he glared at it. At the crimson blood shining along its edge, sparkling in the moonlight.

Kori had wanted to go to the tower with him, the whole team had wanted to but Dick had been numb. Brushed off his teammates with platonic nothings and reassurances, gotten on the bike he’d left at the launch base. And as he’d driven the hours from the launch base, through the countryside and into the thick streets of Blüdhaven, that anger had built. Bloomed and bubbled from the black, heavy grief slowly seeping through his body like tar. Grown until he’d only seen red and couldn’t hear anything other than the screaming inside his head.

Dick stopped his pacing, gaze sweeping his ruined apartment as his chest heaved. He hadn’t turned on the lights on his rampage inside, so the only thing illuminating his apartment was the lights of the neighboring buildings through his kitchen window. A brief twang of guilt rose for his downstairs neighbors—it was nearly 3 in the morning. But it faded nearly as soon it came. Everything had stopped, the red simmering to a weak orange, leaving room for the thick strands of grief to wind their way through his limbs.

Dick collapsed to the floor, ignorant of the shards of glass and porcelain and brittle plastic digging into his face. He really wanted to cry, knew he needed to in order to relieve the tense pressure in his chest, the chaotic static preventing him for having anything like a coherent thought. But he couldn’t. It was weird, how Dick never cried about anything until he actually said it out loud. Spoke to an actual person about it. And that never went well, so Dick didn’t speak—and there would be no relief. Not for a long time.

Jason was dead.

* * *

_Fifteen days later_

Another punch cracked across Dick’s jaw, throwing sparks across his eyes. That was going to leave a mark. This particular thug was more skilled than most, wielding what might be a hunting knife and an old revolver. Dick sprung backward, hand over head before landing on his feet again. The world only tilted a little bit. The man lunged at him again, thrusting forward with his knife first.

Dick barely dodged, spine curling to drag his abdomen away and then falling into a twist as the thug brought up his revolver. The shot rang past his ear, close enough to set a deafening ring off. His hearing would probably return in a few hours. Dick had lost track of how fast his heart was beating; it didn’t matter because this was almost done. That was the man’s last bullet.

Dick lunged forward, knocking the revolver away with an upward kick as the man tried to fire again and failed. Dumbass wasn’t counting his own bullets. He threw a fist forward, returning the punch to the jaw. Getting inside the man’s guard cost him; the swipe of the man’s six-inch knife cut through Dick’s suit, the blade lodging in the muscle of his deltoid with a grunt. The man was just as surprised as Dick when the blade caught—Dick recovered faster. Knocking away the man’s grip on the handle, Dick smacked the heel of his palm into the guy’s sternum. 

It sent the man to the floor and a heel against his temple rendered him unconscious.

As soon as the man was out, Dick let out a whoosh of breath he’d been holding, eyeing the knife blade caught in his shoulder. Fuck, now he was probably going to have to get a tetanus booster. Fucking criminals with no respect for weapon hygiene. Dick tried reaching the blade handle himself but the pull of his back muscles had him flinching down with a wince.

“Fucking shit,” he hissed, the wash of nausea bending him in two. His gut heaved, the sweat on his skin turning cold. Well, that wasn’t coming out for a bit. He might as well handcuff the guy and call the cops first.

After that was done, Dick dragged himself out of the construction site and yanked himself one handed up the fire escape of the closest bougie apartment building. Finally, he made it to the roof, sweaty and shaky, stupid knife still caught in his shoulder. The rush of his heart was still dragging him along on a high, numbing pretty much every sensation except the burn of air down his throat. Dick stood near the edge of the roof for a moment, taking in the view of his city. Breathing in through his nose, out through his mouth. One, two, three times, bracing…

Then reached up and yanked the knife out before any pain could stop him. Dick’s vision went black around the edges, a breathy scream falling from his mouth but he kept his feet under him. He really wanted to throw the blade across the roof, discard the thing that had caused the radiation of stinging down his back but it was covered in his DNA. Dick wiped the blade across his suit, saturating it with all the blood he didn’t want dripping onto the roof. Wishing he had a sheath, Dick strapped the blade to his thigh.

He’d clean it later, maybe rehab it and keep it. But the night was still young, only two or three in the morning. The police scanner crackled to life in his earpiece, in the one ear he could still hear out of. Shots fired four blocks over, at some gala being held in the concert hall. The blood dripping down Dick’s back was a warm, sticky reminder that he needed to stop the bleeding before he could go to that call. He rifled through his belt, coming up with only butterfly strips and reminding himself that he hadn’t restocked his belt since he started patrol this week. 

They’d have to do.

Given the nature of his injury, he could only place the strips on the very ends of the wound, leaving the middle gaping and open to the air. Good enough, at least for him to breathe through the lightheadedness and break out his grapple. Dick swung across the four blocks in a matter of minutes, and crashed a little unceremoniously onto the roof of the concert house just in time for someone to kick open the roof access door and saunter out. The familiar orange and black of his uniform brought a sinking feeling into Dick’s stomach.

“Ah, Nightwing,” came the smooth, entirely unsurprised greeting. “I was wondering when you were going to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

“I was wondering when you were going to leave my fucking city alone,” Dick replied, trying and failing to roll his shoulder back with a grimace.

The leather hilt of the katana slung across the other man's back glinted in the bright up-lighting of the concert hall, caught the handle of the multiple hand guns holstered on his belt. Deathstroke the Terminator kicked the roof access door shut behind him with determined enthusiasm.

“Where’s the fun in that,” Slade drawled, prowling across the roof. Dick drew in a settling breath, pulling one of his escrima from its holster on his back. He couldn’t reach the other one right now. Which really sort of fucked Dick in this situation; Slade wasn’t an easy man to take down but given their numerous encounters over the past decade or so, Dick knew how the man fought better than any other cape out there. That usually gave him a leg up on Slade's other opponents; hopefully it would ensure he didn't get beaten to a pulp this go around. “I didn’t know you’d expanded your choice in weaponry.”

Dick’s head tilted, eyes narrowing behind the opaque lenses of his mask before Slade quietly nodded to the hunting knife strapped to his thigh.

“Trophy,” Dick dismissed, bouncing into his first step, forcing Slade into circling. The sound of approaching police sirens didn’t seem to bother Slade in the least. Dick could feel the older man’s eyes narrow beneath his mask and fought the shiver the followed down his spine. Remembering the last time Dick had had Slade’s eyes on him so intently.

What the fuck was Slade doing in Blüdhaven anyway? Slade usually sent a taunting text, letting Dick know he’d be in town. So, they could… do hero and villain stuff.

“That’s quite a wound you got there,” Slade noticed, chin jutting towards the still actively bleeding knife wound in his back. The blood would have been near invisible against the black of his costume. “Looks fresh.”

“I’ve been busy. Seems like you have too,” Dick replied flatly, pressing the button on his escrima to electrify it.

“Mmm, feeling frisky tonight, Grayson,” Slade taunted, straightening with glee when Dick hissed. The wound on his shoulder burned, alongside all of the other sloppily patched, barely healed, increasingly serious wounds he’d sustained on patrol every night this week. “Looks like you’ve been feeling frisky all week.”

Dick bared his teeth. “When exactly did you get to my fucking city?”

Slade shrugged, grin hidden behind the gleam on his mask. Dick lunged, swiping with his escrima. Slade easily side stepped.

“I’m not fighting you, kid.” Slade’s tone was suddenly serious and the sound of police sirens finally reached the building, but knowing Slade, no one had seen him let alone knew to follow him to the roof.

“Why not?” Dick sounded too much like a petulant child. Too tired to taunt but trying another lunge. He could feel the fire building back up, steaming from his ears, boiling in his gut. The heat was numbing all his aches once again. Slade only knocked his arm away with a wrist block. The impact vibrated up into his already rattling skull.

“I know I’d win.” It was assured, calm. Matter of fact.

Dick bolted forward anyway, keeping his injured arm close, and using his momentum to roll into a leg sweep. Slade grabbed Dick’s ankle to block, throwing him backwards with enough force that Dick barely caught himself.

“Stop,” Slade warned. Dick attacked. Slade knocked Dick’s arm aside, slamming an open palm into his injured shoulder. Stars sparkled in his vision but Dick righted himself and attacked again. This time Slade planted a boot in Dick’s chest. He flew back, crashing against the roof's unforgiving surface. The impact flushed out Dick's adrenaline, crushing the air from his lungs to leave him wheezing and coughing. Dick could feel blood oozing from his various wounds, his body throbbing. He frantically patted the ground, searching for his escrima as he heard the crunch of Slade's boots across the roof. Just as his fingertips brushed his weapon, Slade's foot kicked it out of reach. And Dick’s body was too busy spasming to do anything about it. 

Then Slade was looming over him, all six foot plus of him towering all the way to the sky in Dick’s swimming vision. Slade’s heavy boot pressed down on Dick’s already sore chest. His hands flew to the steel capped toe, trying miserably to remove it. Slade only pressed harder, squeezing a whine out of him.

“ _Stop_ ,” Slade warned, setting even more weight into his boot. “You’re not going to win this fight.”

Dick coughed, feeling the dirt of the roof grind into his open shoulder wound as he struggled. "Fuck you."

“The way you’ve been going the past two weeks, you won’t be winning any more. And frankly, I don’t want to be the one to pick your body out of some gutter and tell the Bat he’s lost another son to stupidity and recklessness.”

And there were the tears, right at the edge of his eyes. Slade had said it, made it real.

“How fucking long have you _been here_ ,” he gasped, pushing furiously at the boot on his chest but his muscles were leaking strength like a popped water balloon. And his vision kept swaying. 

“Long enough to see how much of a goddamn idiot you’re being,” Slade replied, leaning further over Dick. Tears pricked at the younger man’s eyes, gloved fingers scrabbling at the buckles of Slade’s boot. “ _Enough,_ Dick,” Slade whispered. “Let me take care of your wounds, and then you can decide if you still want to be a fucking moron.”

Every breath Dick took made a sound, pathetic and wispy. He looked around the roof top, saw his escrima too far out of reach. He thought about reaching for his pillaged knife, but he doubted his fingers would listen enough to grasp the blade. 

“Fine,” Dick whimpered beneath Slade’s weighty gaze.

Slade sighed. “Come on, kid.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pure self-indulgent wound care and some hurt/comfort. Dick can't bring himself to talk about Jason yet, but that's mostly because he can't think very well atm. Hope you all enjoy!

Being carried was a little embarrassing—first Slade had bent to pull Dick to his feet. Dick had lasted for a good couple steps, Slade going slow and steady despite the fact that he was fleeing a probably murder scene. But the world zoomed in suddenly, and then backed out into a sudden jerk of frame that had him collapsing on the roof. It didn’t matter though as Slade only scoped Dick’s limp weight over his broad, armored shoulders in a fireman’s carry. The last of Dick’s consciousness dribbled out of his body as he felt Slade leave the roof of the concert hall.

Dick woke very slowly, and immediately regretted he wasn’t just dead or in a coma. Not when every limb felt like it weighed like a block of concrete and every single wound he’d been shoving down into his stomach was throbbing with righteous fury. And they weren’t even to wherever the fuck Slade was taking him, the city lights passing in a blur of color, too fast to be on foot. Dick groaned, rolling his head full of rocks against what felt like a cushioned head rest. He managed to crack one eyelid open wide enough to see Slade in front of a driving wheel, in civvies with his face bare.

“Glad you’re still alive, kid,” Slade murmured, glancing over to where Dick was apparently laid out on the reclined passenger seat of a modified, very fast car. He could only groan again, his tongue dry and too big for his mouth. “I didn’t think you were stupid enough to run around with a wound that would drain you dry within the hour.”

Dick looked out of the very corner of his eye to see a bloody wrap crisscrossed over his shoulder and chest, staunching the blood flow his meager and sparse butterfly strips had failed to stop. He tried sitting up against the protest of probably every single muscle in his body but Slade’s large hand splayed over his chest, pushed him roughly back down on the seat. 

“Don’t try to move or I will strap you to that chair, understood?” Slade barked, fingertips digging into the muscle of Dick’s chest. “Understood?”

Dick managed to whine an affirmative and Slade replaced his hand back on the wheel. His head lolled back and forth against the seat, eyes desperately trying to focus on street signs or business names to tell where he was, but his eyes wouldn’t cooperate. It felt like Dick had pushed out half his lung capacity before he finally managed to get his voice to work enough to croak, “’re goin?”

“A safe house of mine,” Slade replied, voice deep and soothing as ever. It felt like silk running over Dick’s skin. “We’re almost there, try not to pass out again.”

Dick hummed, eyes fluttering closed despite the order. Dick wondered if this safe house was one he’d been to before. God knows Dick has seen his fair share of Slade’s safe houses, and Slade Dick’s. He should probably decommission some of those, he thought absently, find some new places.

“Kid,” Slade snapped, yanking Dick out of the semi-conscious state he’d slipped into. The startle tugged at barely healed wounds and elicited a hiss. “Awake.”

Dick scowled at Slade as he finally pulled up to a garage door nestled between two others, large enough to be loading docks. Slade pressed a button on his dash and the smaller door rolled open onto blackness. The car was swallowed up as Slade pulled through and Dick’s already shitty vision plunged into black. He probably passed out because the next thing he knew, Slade had him cradled against his chest, listening to the soft ding of an elevator tone passing floor after floor.

Everything hurt, _everything_ , not just his body. He’d stopped moving, stopped focusing, stopped the pump of adrenaline through his veins and now everything burned. Like he’d doused himself in gasoline and gladly lit the match. A whimper creeped past Dick’s chapped lips, breathing into Slade’s neck.

“It’s okay,” Slade whispered, adjusting his grip on Dick’s legs and back. His nose brushed Dick’s sweaty forehead. “You’re okay, I’ve got you.”

The elevator made a final, expensive sounding ding and the doors opened directly into whatever space Slade had claimed as his safe house. Dick would have drunk in more details if he wasn’t so loopy from blood loss. Probably blood loss. Slade stepped into his space, the doors closing behind them as he strode across the floor. “You’re lucky I like you, kid. You’ve bloodied my armor, my car, and now my clothes.”

Dick couldn’t bother with an answer, eyes rolling back in his head as his entire body was just one big throb. Then he was being set down on his feet, which his body _did not_ agree to and buckled his knees in response, but Slade still had a firm arm around his waist, supporting most of his weight.

“I’m just taking off your suit. It’ll only take a minute,” Slade soothed when Dick let out a squeezed groan through his nose. Dick nodded limply, leaning on Slade as the assassin found the catch of his Nightwing suit with practiced ease. Removed the makeshift wrap around his shoulder. The peeling out of the suit part was much worse than the standing part. Ripped and a little tattered and definitely blood soaked, the suit was crusted to his skin by the copious amounts of blood and open wounds and sticky bandages he’d slapped over cuts himself.

“Slade,” Dick breathed, brows furrowed in pain, knuckles white in the man’s shirt.

“I’ve got you. Almost done.” Dick’s weapons, personal and collected, clattered on Slade’s tile floor from the sound of it. His skin prickled as the suit came off his skin fiber by fiber, pulling at the edges of wounds, at the hypersensitized nerves of his whole body. Dick’s eyes were still closed, practically glued shut with exhaustion despite the stimulation of disrobing. What muscles could, tightened, his head tilting back as he scrunched his shoulders, the suit rolling down his chest, his stomach, his legs before finally pooling around his feet. Leaving him in only his briefs. Dick was panting by the end, on the verge of tears.

“All done,” Slade reassured, stooping to sweep Dick back up, the weight of his suit still caught on his ankles. “All done, baby.”

Dick would have wrapped his arm around Slade’s neck if there wasn’t a dirty, gaping wound running across much of his shoulder blade, reaching onto his back. His head drooped into the crook of Slade’s neck as they began moving again, the whisper of a door opening in front of them. Then Dick was hissing and thrashing weakly at the cold touch of polished stone on his back, grunting in between as it all tugged at open flesh. But Slade’s hands were around his shoulders, holding him up as soft rustling accompanied the movement of one of Slade’s hands. 

Then Dick was being lowered back onto a very soft, warm towel instead of cold countertop, the rest of his suit plucked off his ankles. 

“I’m going to patch you up, okay, Grayson? Then we’ll see about cleaning the rest of you.”

The very small nod of Dick’s head must have been enough for Slade, because Dick was left on the countertop for a few minutes by himself. The sound of cabinets and drawers opening and closing was the soundtrack to the cool of the countertop actually soothing the raging heat of wounds and aching muscles. In those few minutes, Dick managed to peel open at least one eye again, finding he couldn’t really open the other one beneath his domino.

But he could see enough that he knew he was in a bathroom, a very expensive looking bathroom. It had to be since there was a granite-topped island (which Dick was laid on), giant natural stone walk-in shower, in ground bathtub and all the adornments of someone with money and the expensive taste to match.

After a few minutes, Slade returned with a hospital’s worth of supplies and a stool.

He watched Slade mouth something, some muffled sound registering but coming from the other side of the room.

“What?” Dick whispered hoarsely, the wound in his shoulder twinging. Slade frowned, setting supplies out by Dick’s legs before his fingers grasped Dick’s chin and turned his head back and forth.

“Perfed an eardrum too, huh?” This time the sound was clearer, his good ear now tilted towards Slade. The deaf ear was on the side of Dick’s good arm, and he was barely able to bring his hand up and touch the still ringing ear. He felt blood stick to his fingers.

“Bullet,” Dick slurred, hand falling back onto the towel covered countertop. Slade hummed in response. He’d all but forgotten the near headshot.

“Well, I can’t say this is going to be fun, but I can drug you if you want,” Slade offered, moving around to the side of Dick’s good ear. The assassin’s large hand cupped Dick’s opposite cheek, bringing the young hero’s face towards Slade’s. Dick didn’t respond. Slade took that as permission to slide his nails beneath the edge of Dick’s domino. The glue stung coming off the skin around his eyes, but it felt like he’d shed ten pounds when Slade finally pulled his domino completely off. “And a shiner to boot. You had a lot of fun this week,” Slade quipped.

Dick could only pant thinly, jaw clenching together as all his injuries came into brutal focus. Scowling, Slade brushed the backs of his fingers across Dick’s cheekbone—the one beneath his good eye. “What am I going to do with you?” Slade murmured, more to himself than anything. Dick inclined his head, eyelids flickering shut as he wheezed. Weakly, Dick bent his arm up so he could wrap his fingers around Slade’s forearm, brows deeply furrowed. “It’s okay, baby,” Slade’s thumb touched Dick’s brow, “I’ll fix you.”

The man set to work, first pushing a shit ton of who knew what into Dick’s vein—but it immediately dimmed the world down to just Slade and his hands and the sound of his breath while he worked. He started with the knife wound, propping Dick on his side with a rolled-up towel, quiet and stoic as he flushed out the dirt and grime and administered some local anesthesia before setting to closing the deep wound. Dick couldn’t feel much outside of the occasional twitch and odd pulling sensation as Slade sewed up the layers. While Dick was still propped up, Slade cleaned and dressed the other sloppy wounds on his back. Just some cuts and a bruised rib, nothing that needed stitches. 

“Grayson,” Slade sighed, rolling him onto his back. Slade’s hand settled on Dick’s cheek again, the hero watching beneath is hazy gaze. A rough thumb swiped over Dick’s cheekbone. He leaned into the touch, breath ragged as he did so. But Slade just brushed the damp hair from his eyes before returning to work. Slade tsked and made disapproving comments as he found and removed Dick’s sloppy patch jobs on two stab wounds, a bullet graze, and a bleeding bone bruise.

There was a colorful mural of bruises across the rest of his skin, tender and sore as Slade prodded them for broken bones or organ bleeds. Thankfully there was none of that, and Slade finished cleaning and bandaging the rest of the open wounds. The shallow stab wound on his thigh stung more than his shoulder, but maybe Slade hadn’t used local anesthesia before he stitched. He sealed the bandages with waterproof dermal tape, presumably so Slade could thoroughly scrub Dick clean without ruining what had to be at least two hours of handiwork in sutures. By that time, whatever drug was in his system had worn off enough that Dick could form coherent words.

He caught Slade’s finger in his as he was putting away the excess bandages. Slade, single grey eye focused, turned to Dick who was breathing just a little easier. He definitely had a few bruised and or broken ribs.

His lungs only spasmed a little when he inhaled. “Thank… you,” he breathed.

The corner of Slade’s mouth tilted up. His hand came up to trace Dick’s chapped lips. “I’m glad you’re satisfied with my handiwork.”

“I’m sorry,” Dick whispered, his finger tightening, pulling Slade closer.

“No,” Slade snapped, startling Dick’s eyes open a little wider. The man’s mouth had become a thin line. “You have nothing to be sorry for, kid. _Nothing._ ” Slade leaned down, and Dick coiled away, expecting some other punishment but Slade only touched his forehead to his. He sighed, and Dick melted a little, eyes drifting closed. “Except maybe for being an idiot.”

“Can’t help that,” Dick said tiredly, tilting his chin so their noses brushed.

Slade huffed, a smile smoothing out the grimace. “Let’s get you in a bath.”

* * *

“What did you give me?” Dick slurred some time later, swaying on his feet with his forehead leant against Slade’s freshly changed shirt. His fingers were clumsy and splayed on Slade’s waist, eyes closed. 

“Something for the immense amount of pain you’re in,” Slade murmured against Dick’s temple. He’d just finished slipping Dick into a spare pair of basketball shorts and was now tying the drawstrings to prevent them for immediately falling down Dick’s hips. This was after Slade had made quick, impersonal work of scrubbing away the blood and grime from Dick’s skin, revealing even more bruises that had been hidden beneath the dirt. After deadlifting him out of the brown water and sticking a needle of clear liquid in his vein again.

“’s really heavy,” Dick breathed, rolling his cheek against Slade’s collarbone, spine growing limp.

“I sure hope it is.” Slade leaned down and swept Dick up once more. The drug was heavy enough that Dick’s head fell back far enough he thought it was going to fall off. And no way was there enough muscle control to brace an arm around Slade’s shoulders. Or try to open his eyes. Dick hadn’t opened his eyes since Slade had laid him on the counter.

There wasn’t even a creak in the floor as Dick was set on the cushiest goddamn bed he’d laid on in years. “fukn sof,” he moaned.

“You’re cute when you’re drunk,” Slade commented.

“Mm-hmm,” Dick hummed, sighing as Slade stuffed even softer pillows behind his back and head. “’m ver cute.”

Slade chuckled quietly, making even more rummaging noises. Dick groaned pleasantly as a very thick, very heavy blanket was laid over his legs and stomach. “Can you sit up?”

“Mo,” Dick replied, and Slade propped him up with his own hand and slid behind him on the bed. He set Dick’s good shoulder against his chest, leaving the freshly stitched one free hanging. The waterproof seal was peeled off his shoulder and replaced with soft layers of bandage wrap. Dick groaned in displeasure as Slade secured his arm to his chest, immobilizing his stupid shoulder with wrap around his ribs, chest, shoulder, and arm. “’m gonna suffocate.”

“Don’t be such a baby,” Slade murmured. He secured the wrapping and finished peeling off the other dermal tape patches to replace them with cotton pads and ace bandage wraps until Dick felt like a stiff doll. But fuck if he wasn’t comfortable.

Slade slid out from behind him, laying him back against his mountain of pillows and pulled the heavy winter blanket up to his shoulders. Dick’s jaw was slack, his lips slightly parted as he brought more air into his lungs than his stuffed nose could. And he could definitely pass out right here, right now.

When Slade pulled away though, Dick managed to catch the man’s hand, tangling their fingers together. He was thankful for whatever drug Slade had given him because the need to cry was welling up again, unbidden, but he was too tired to let it manifest.

“What is it,” Slade cooed, returning Dick’s barely there hold on his hand.

Dick's mouth turned down, brows knitting even though he couldn’t open his eyes. “Don’t go.”

Heat suddenly brushed his face, and Slade was pressing a tender kiss to Dick’s cheek. “I’m not going anywhere, little bird.”


End file.
